


Little Hell

by beautiful_flyaway



Series: City & Colour; Friends to Lovers [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautiful_flyaway/pseuds/beautiful_flyaway
Summary: "He’d never understood the hype until he played beside him; his hockey was phenomenal, he was sharp and quick, all his passes seemed to connect effortlessly… and he looked like a CCM model while he did all of it."The sequel to Sometimes. Set to the music of City and Colour's Little Hell





	1. We Found Each Other in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Uh...
> 
> Hey, guys. It's been a while. A long while. 
> 
> If you've read Sometimes, welcome to the sequel. If you HAVEN'T read sometimes... you probably should read that first!
> 
> As you may or may not have noticed, I deleted the version of this story that hadn't seen an update in a year and a half. It was never finished, because it gave me writers block, and I was never happy with it... So here I am, a long time later, trying this again. If you've stuck with me all this time, thank you for your patience. If you're new to the party, I'm happy you're here!
> 
> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=er5BJuO0KEo

_I heard the church bells from afar,_

_But we found each other in the dark._

_And when the smoke does finally pass_

_We will rise above all the ash._

                _“Me and Connor just connected; we became really close. We had such a close bond, we were always together.”_

When Dylan first came to Erie, it seemed to him like a city that never saw the sun; the grey clouds that overcast the Pennsylvania skies were oppressive… just like the loneliness that had consumed him since moving. Not to sound like. Dramatic, or anything.

                Of course, Dylan was thrilled to be playing in the OHL, thrilled to have been drafted to the Otters, but it was. It was hard leaving everything behind in Mississauga. He’d watched Ryan leave in the same manner just a few years prior, knew the gaping hole his big brother’s absence left in his life. He was doing the same thing to Matty now, and leaving his parents with one less son in the house. But that was just the life of a hockey family, he supposed. Give up everything for a chance at making it to the show.

                And, God, he wanted to make it.

                His billet family was nice, his room was comfortable, but Erie was grey and he missed his home.

                It was only 9pm by the time Dylan got settled in, but he was already exhausted from the whole… moving to a new country thing, and his first practice with the Otters was first thing in the morning, which meant his had to be in full equipment and ready to hit the ice at 8am sharp. So when his head touched the pillow that night, he was already fast asleep, and dreaming about freshly sharpened blades skating along smooth white ice.

_So bright, the flames burned in our hearts,_

_That we found each other in the dark._

                Dylan never had any trouble getting along with people, so meeting his new team was easy. So was getting back on the ice. It was all like breathing. And practice was fun –  especially when they started playing five on five, and Dylan ended up as lineys with Connor McDavid, who’s name had been making rounds in the hockey community since he was thirteen. He’d never understood the hype until he played beside him; his hockey was phenomenal, he was sharp and quick, all his passes seemed to connect effortlessly… and he looked like a CCM model while he did all of it.

                In the locker room, when their practice drew to a close, McDavid plunked himself down on the bench next to Dylan. He pulled his helmet off, and a head of messy, strawberry blonde came loose from underneath, the ends darkened and damp with sweat. He smiled at Dylan, a reserved kind of smile that wasn’t really shy, but… guarded, like he knew he was on home ice here, but he wanted to approach the interloper with caution.

                “Hey, nice game out there,” Connor offered, leaning down to unlace his skates. Dylan responded with a smile of his own.

                “Yeah, man. You too. You play, uh, good,” was his response, because he was eloquent as fuck. Connor’s smile widened into this big, dorky thing that was entirely too toothy, but disarmingly charming in a weird way, and Dylan felt a pang of something strange and unfamiliar run down his spine… It was a feeling that would become _too_ familiar soon enough. They redressed in their civvies in relative silence after that, and when Connor left the locker room, and retreated back into the corridors of the Erie Insurance Arena, Dylan found himself watching after him: the way his t-shirt clung to the muscles of his lats and delts, the way his waist tapered off, and then softly curved into hips that swung gently as he walked…

                God, what was going on in Dylan’s head?

                He shoved his remaining belongings into his equipment bag, and made his own way to the door, only to find McDavid waiting at the exit.

                “Hey, Strome?” He asked, catching Dylan by the shoulder. “I, uh… look, I know you’re not from around here, and I remember my first little while here was pretty lonely, and my two best friends just got traded, and. And usually me and them would go out for food after practice, and –“

                “Are you asking me to go out to eat with you?” Dylan asked, unable to stifle his laughter at Connor’s awkwardness.

                “Uh. Yeah?”

                “Yes, for the love of God, please show me what’s edible in this grey city.”

                Russ’s Dinor was… quaint. It was a small, old timey looking place with home cooked food, and staff that knew Connor by name when they walked in. Once they situated themselves at a booth by the window, a waitress came over, with glasses of ice water, a bright smile, and thinly veiled flirting for Connor.

                “Who’s your new friend, Davo?” She asked, smiling briefly over at Dylan before turning her attention back to Connor.

                “This is Dylan. He’ll be playing with the Otters from now on,” he explained. He continued to talk to the girl, but Dylan had already stopped listening, opting instead to watch “Davo” talk about the upcoming Otters season, apparently oblivious to the fact that her only interest was him, and not the game. But he just seemed to… light up when he talked about hockey. Dylan didn’t want to claim that he understood it, because he’d known the guy for a day, but. But he knew the feeling of hockey setting his soul on fire. Knew that the only way to cool the blaze was to surround himself with ice. And as he watched Connor, he was pretty sure he recognized that flame burning in his eyes.

                It was a kind of beautiful, entrancing flame.

                After a while, she managed to coax an order out of them both, and then it was just the two of them again. And, while Dylan could strike up a casual, mundane conversation with just about anyone, he found himself enthralled with every word the two of them exchanged. Dylan could feel that the two of them were very different; where he was boisterous and quick to act, Connor was quiet, and everything he did was carefully thought out. Where Dylan was admittedly immature, Connor was just the opposite… But as time slipped away between them, so did their differences, and by the time their meals were cleared, there was no denying that Dylan Strome had found a special connection with Connor McDavid.

                It had been several hours since their arrival at Russ’s Dinor, when Dylan leaned across the table towards Connor, and whispered conspiratorially.

                “Hey, I need to tell you something,” he said, and Connor moved in closer to him, a serious expression creasing his brow and thinning his full lips into a hard line. Dylan pointed out the window towards the restaurant’s sign. “I’m not the smartest guy… But I’m pretty damn sure that’s not how you spell _diner_.”

                He would later pinpoint Connor’s corresponding laughter as the exact moment Dylan fell for him.

_Through the black starless water,_

_And the cold lonely air._

_On the rock restless seas,_

_The vessel in deep disrepair._

_And I swore they started singing,_

_But then oh, rejoice!_

_I can still hear your voice._


	2. Natural Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, special was about the only way Connor knew how to describe everything about his relationship with Dylan Strome.
> 
> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoM5hLZ09R0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the real makeover starts, and I'm a lot happier with how this goes down now. Everything still fits in with the Sometimes timeline, everything's a little more organic, and as always, I hope you enjoy!

_Can you imagine all the homes abandoned and all alone?_

_With no one left to care for their wilting bones_

                “ _Going through it with him is very special._ _It’s going to be very special to go through something like this with him.”_

Yeah, _special_ was about the only way Connor knew how to describe everything about his relationship with Dylan Strome. About just… Dylan Strome in general. Connor had known it since that very first day Dyls had skated next to him in Erie that there was something, well… special between them. And then at Russ’s, over pancakes and way too much bacon, he’d made Connor feel happier than he’d felt since he’d first gotten wind of Stephen and Hayden’s trades.

                Dylan was exactly what he needed at that point in his life, and from then on he just seemed to, like, keep being exactly what he needed. Dylan was always just the person Connor needed at any given time in his life; When he broke his hand, Dylan became his caregiver; when he became the Otter’s captain, Stromer was his left hand man, sporting an A; in Sunrise, Florida, when Connor thought he was going to puke up everything he’d ever eaten, Dylan was there with his dorky double handed waving to calm Connor’s nerves.

                So, when they were separated – Connor to Edmonton, and Dylan back to Erie – things were hard. Sure, they like. Texted, and face timed and stuff, and Connor made friends on the Oilers, but it wasn’t the same as being able to physically be together. To skate together, and get breakfast at Russ’s, and hug out their cellies and. It sucked.

                Being an NHL superstar was pretty amazing. Literally the dream that he’d worked for his whole life. But doing it without Stromer by his side sucked.

                “Davo,” there was a murmur against his throat, and soft lips caressed his jugular while long fingers slipped below the hem of his t-shirt, seeking more skin on skin. “Davo, you’re thinking too loud.”

                And that seemed accurate, because he couldn’t get out of his own head lately. Even now, literal seconds away from getting laid… Connor was thinking about Dylan. And like, what the fuck was that about? In lieu of a response, he threaded his hand into the head of dark hair that was tucked into the crook of his neck.

                “Then make me forget how to think, Nuge,” Connor purred, before tugging Ryan up into a rough kiss. And he knew Ryan would do just that, but it would only last until they were both spent, and his team mate was curled around him, looking at him a little too honestly, wanting permission to stay the night. Permission that Connor wouldn’t grant, because Connor knew he’d keep Nuge up all night with his loud thoughts.

                 Thoughts that were definitely not of Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, even if they both would have liked for them to be, because Connor knew Nuge wanted more than just this casual fucking. Connor knew it could be so easy with Ryan too, but as soon as he was out of Connor’s body, he was also out of his head.

_There's no electricity flowing through these lifeless veins_

                It was the third week of August, and Connor was in Toronto for BioSteel camp the following week, but until then he had some time to kill in the GTA. Which meant his plan was to spend seven days in Mississauga with Stromer. The first few days had been great, just classic Davo and Stromer and as usual, Dylan had Connor feeling happier than anyone in the world ever had. Probably ever would.

                But on the fourth day, Dylan and Connor were sitting in Dylan’s bedroom, playing NHL18. They were both piled onto Stromer’s bed, Dylan leaning back against a stack of pillows, and Connor pressed into his side as they chirped each other’s bad plays. Dylan’s body was warm against him, and he could feel their breathing was in sync, and it was just. Nice. It felt like everything Connor wished their lives could have been if they could have somehow been drafted to the same team, or played for the Otters forever.

                So, yeah, things were basically perfect until Connor felt his phone vibrate in his pocket towards the end of their current game, which distracted him just enough to let Dylan get the game winning goal. His gloating smile was disarming, and Connor wanted to tell him that being cocky wasn’t a good trait… but he couldn’t. It looked good on Stromer. Before they started the next round, Connor dug his phone out of his pants and saw he had a message from Ryan.

                It was a picture message… of Ryan Nugent-Hopkins’ hard dick in his hand, a drop of precum glistening at the tip. And like… _oh._ Connor shut the screen off in a hurry, but with Dylan plastered to his side as he was, it wasn’t fast enough.

                “Woah,” Dylan murmured, his brown eyes widening. “I, uh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to. Uh, go ahead and uh.” And his best friend was very rarely at a loss for words, but Connor supposed if any situation were to warrant it, it was this one. Connor shoved the phone back into his pocket, wanting equal parts to

  1. forget this ever happened, and
  2. curl up and die.



                There was a beat of silence that lasted just a bit too long before Dylan cleared his throat.

                “I know you already know this but like. Careful who you’re sending those to, you never know what girls are going to do with them.” And.

                Oh.

                “Wait, no. I wasn’t. That’s not…” And even though Connor wasn’t sure where the thought was going, Stromer seemed to clue in.

                “Wait, someone _sent_ that to you?” And Dylan was laughing, his same old carefree laugh. He gave Dylan a playful shove. “Someone’s gonna be pretty disappointed when they find out you’re not into dudes.” And Connor could have left it at that. Really, Connor could have let Dylan go on believing that he was straight as the blue line but.

                Connor couldn’t hide it forever. And this was _Stromer._ His best friend, who knew Connor better than Connor knew Connor. He couldn’t just keep lying to him forever. He’d find out some day, obviously. And it would just get more awkward the longer the lie went on.

                Dylan was watching him, humour light in his sleepy brown eyes, and Connor was struck wondering why he’d ever felt the need to keep any secrets from him. Because Dylan? Dylan was like a chameleon, always adapting to be the exact person Connor needed, and he’d never like. Like, turn him away or whatever because of a preference for dick. Right? Dylan would always adapt to be the person Connor needed.

                It seemed to dawn on Dylan that Connor was not laughing with him, and his expression changed just enough that someone who didn’t know Stromer wouldn’t notice, but Connor knew Dylan, the same way that Dylan knew him.

                “Connor, what’s up?” he asked, and it was now or never.

                “Dyls, you’re my best friend.”

                “Obviously”

                “So if I tell you something, you have to promise to like. Not treat me differently, or whatever?” Connor pressed on, despite the lump in his throat. “I love you, dude. And I’d hate to lose you over something dumb.”

                “Okay, yeah, but no. You can tell me anything, Davo. You know that,” Dylan placed a comforting hand on Connor’s thigh, and a load of tension that Connor didn’t even realize he’d been carrying left his body.

                “It’s just that, uh, what you said before… I, uh, _am_ into dudes… and uh,” Connor wasn’t entirely sure where his sentence was headed, but it didn’t matter because he was cut off by Dylan’s mouth pressing softly against his, and he tasted like the Coke he was just drinking, and he smelled like Old Spice and Connor felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick up, and his stomach tie in knots, and when Dylan pulled away it felt like an eternity had passed, but really it was only been a couple of seconds and. And Dylan was smiling his trademark Stromer Smile and if Connor thought his head was loud before, now it was absolutely screaming in confusion.

                Right then, Connor was glad for his years of press training, because he’s sure his words were coming out of their own accord, and all he could think about was being kissed by Dylan.

                “Stromer… Oh no, Stromer, that’s not what I meant. I love you, yeah. You know that, you’re my best friend. But I cherish our friendship too much for that. I don’t want to ruin what we have,” maybe he was rambling, but he was also backing away, and climbing off of Dylan’s bed and planning on making a bee line out of the Strome household. He was standing in the threshold of Dylan’s bedroom, and Dylan had made no move to get up after him. Was just staring at him with a blank expression on his face.

                “Dyls, you’ve always been everything I needed, but I don’t ever want you to… I don’t know, force yourself to be something you’re not for me.” And then he bolted from the house, climbed into his car, and even though his mind was clouded by a thick haze, he tried to focus on the road as he made the drive to his parents’ place in Richmond Hill. 

_A hint of heartbreak still lingers in the air_

_And weeds have choked the breath out of it long ago_

 

 

               

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Nuge is Huge. 
> 
> Story time: while I was rewriting this, I had a discussion with my boyfriend that went as follows:  
> Me: Who does Nugent-Hopkins play for now?  
> Him: Uh, the Oilers.  
> Me: What? No, I'm pretty sure they traded him to make room in the cap for Draisaitl.  
> Him: No, I'm pretty sure he still plays for Emonton.  
> Me: No, that doesn't seem right, I'm pretty sure he got traded to like. Minnesota or something. 
> 
> Turns out that was just a Nuge/Hallsy fic I read, and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins absolutely still plays for the Edmonton Oilers. Don't do drugs, kids. 
> 
> Anyways! If you enjoyed, leave me a comment, leave me a Kudos, they make me want to keep writing!


	3. The Grand Optimist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now the wound has begun to turn, another lesson that has gone unlearned. But this is not a cry for pity, or for sympathy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Publishing anything before 12am? In 2019??? I would never. 
> 
> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WZo31zMAySQ

_I fear I'm dying from complications,_

_complications due to things that I've left undone_

_“He’s got a beautiful heart. He’s a guy you like off the ice but hate on the ice.”_

                Dylan is seventeen, in Mitchell Marner’s billet bedroom. Mitch is high off the Knights’ win against the Otters, and Dylan… well Connor is blaming himself for the loss, and isolating himself from Dylan. And Dylan still doesn’t understand why Davo cutting him off feels like such a gaping wound in his chest.

                But Mitch. Mitch is this goofy, easy presence in his life who should, by all accounts, be his rival, but is really just one of his best friends. And he doesn’t really make the pain go away but. But he dulls it when he presses their bodies together, tangles their legs, and entwines the fingers on one of their hands, and. Dylan has heard of Mitch Marner’s affinity for bro cuddles, but this was not that.

                Mitch slips his free hand beneath Dylan’s sweater, splays his fingers across the flat plane of his belly, brushes them through the trail of dark hair that runs from below the waist band of his sweats.

                Fuck, Dylan was rock hard, and so was Mitch, and their hips were grinding together when Mitch finally looked up at him, blue eyes sparkling, and bridged the gap between their lips. And it wasn’t until Dylan was straddling Mitch’s hips, pressing him into the mattress, drunk on each other’s lips, tongues tasting and caressing one another’s that Dylan realized…

                _Fuck. I’m gay._  

_I am the world's poor pessimist_

                Dylan was in love with Connor McDavid – even if it had taken him a while to make sense of his feelings. But even once he’d understood them, there wasn’t much he could do about them; Connor was his best friend, straight, and pining over him wouldn’t change a thing. It didn’t exactly feel good, but it was easy to push the feeling aside when Dylan knew he didn’t have a chance.

                But then Davo had to go and drop that bombshell that he was not, in fact, straight. And suddenly the feelings weren’t so easy to repress.

                _“What you said before… I, uh,_ am _into dudes.”_ Dylan’s body had reacted before his brain had even fully processed the connotations of what he was doing, and just like that, Connor’s sentence had been cut short by Dylan’s kiss. Connor’s mouth had been plush, and soft, and everything Dylan had ever wanted. Davo had even kissed him back tentatively before Dylan pulled away, unable to keep the smile from his face… Before he saw the look on Connor’s.

                The silence hung thickly in the air between them as Connor absently reached for his lips, his fingers lingering there as he stared blankly at Dylan for what felt like an eternity. And then he started to retreat, away from Dylan, hitting him with the _I cherish our friendship_ spiel. He was almost out the door when he paused. He turned around and looked at Dylan, faraway look in his eyes.

                _“Dyls, you’ve always been everything I needed, but I don’t ever want you to… I don’t know, force yourself to be something you’re not for me.”_

                But what Connor didn’t understand was that Dylan would never be something he wasn’t for him – if Dylan was true with himself, he knew that everything he wanted to be included being just right for Connor.

                It had been two days since Connor hauled ass out of his parents’ house in the ‘Sauga, two days of ignored texts, of phone calls going straight to voicemail, of absolute radio silence, and two days of pathetic moping.

                So yeah, Dylan’s life was going great.  

                 He really couldn’t handle his own pity-party anymore; he was irritating _himself_. He was due back in Arizona next week, due to move into Jakob Chychrun’s spare room as his rookie roommate. The only reason he was still here was to spend time with Davo… but with Davo ghosting him, what was keeping him here? He fired off a text to Chych.

                  ** _Dylan:_** _Hey bro, you chill if I come down there early?_

                Jakob’s response came in almost immediately.

**_Jakob:_ ** _Always ready for you, Stromedaddy_

_And now the wound has begun to turn, another lesson that has gone unlearned_

                Dylan wasn’t sure if he liked Arizona. Even on the coldest of days, it was hot, and dry, and nothing like Ontario, and the Gila River Arena was so goddamn far from the Phoenix, it would be like putting the Leafs in fucking Hamilton. But Chych was a bro, and Kellsy was always around for a drink or five, and OEL was definitely the kind of guy Dylan wanted wearing the C, even if it _was_ just an A for now (but if they were being real, the promotion was just a formality at this point). And, if nothing else, over the month in Glendale that followed, Dylan learned that he’d improved his game enough to make the ‘Yotes roster full time. What he hadn’t banked on – and really, hindsight is 20/20 – was breaking his wrist in his second game against the Vegas Golden Knights, and getting placed on injured reserve for six to eight weeks. Just his luck really.

                His folks invite him home while he heals up, and Dylan knows they’re worried about him… Not just about his wrist, but his mental state, and Dylan can’t help but think that they may be right to worry; another career delay, in love with his best friend, who won’t even return his texts. The second he meets his ‘rents at YYZ, they’re fussing over him, telling how nice it will be to have him home, and he can’t handle the worry, the _pity_ in their eyes as they walk him through the terminal.

                So that’s how Dylan ends up in a kitschy little diner at Yonge and Dundas with TML number 16, eating breakfast for dinner and getting way too honest with one another.

                And now… now Dylan is twenty, in Mitchell Marner’s Toronto apartment, with his hand cased in plaster from his thumb to half way up his forearm, and he and Mitch are both fucking pining over their respective first over-all draft picks. Auston Matthews, who in every interview talked about Marns with hearts in his eyes, who in pictures always had his eyes cast Mitch’s way, refused to get his shit together and admit to having feelings. And Connor McDavid, who has his name filed under DNC. So both Dylan and Mitch were pretty miserable.

                But here in Mitch’s bed, just like when they were seventeen, Mitch’s lips are insistent against his, and his body is made of hard muscle, and he dulls the pain. It’s still there, but it’s easier to ignore with Mitch’s weight on top of him, and his hands seeking Dylan’s skin. Even easier when his fingers unbutton Dylan’s pants, and Mitch pulls them down to his thighs.

                “Oh fuck, Marns,” his voice comes out as a breathy sigh when Mitch’s lips wrap around his cock, his tongue circling expertly around its head, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, and Dylan can’t help but think that it’s so easy like this. It could _be_ so easy for them, if only they could feel more for each other than friendship, could give each other more than orgasms.

                _But this is not a cry for pity or for sympathy_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally wrote this before the '17-'18 season started, so obviously Dylan never got injured (thank god), but I was super worried originally that I'd jynxed him. I'm glad that didn't come to fruition! 
> 
> If you're enjoying, leave me something! 
> 
> I love comments, they're my lifeblood.


	4. Little Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so Connor had admittedly been overreacting for far too long about the whole Stromer kiss thing 
> 
> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HD0vcAwHN7s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone actually reading this? lol
> 
> Well, here's where I gave up last time. Fingers crossed the rest gets finished (y)

_What if I can't be all that you need me to be?_

_We've got a good thing going, we have some promises to keep_

_“Outside of my family, there’s a long list of people I could thank, but I would say it’s friends like Dylan who I’ve been through everything with.”_

                Okay, so Connor had admittedly been overreacting for far too long about the whole Stromer kiss thing – he hadn’t even texted Dylan, his best fucking friend, since _August_. Didn’t even call to congratulate him for making the Coyotes roster.

                To Connor’s credit, he was freaking the fuck out over the kiss. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he left Dylan’s bedroom, hadn’t been able to quiet his already chaotic mind, which was now perpetually screaming at him questionable thoughts about his feelings for Stromer.

                But like, he was still being a shitty friend, his brain told him.

                Connor had a four day off stretch at home between games against the Jets and the Sens, and was stretched out on his couch watching the second of the ‘Yotes back to back games against the Knights. He’d missed the first one.

                Because he was playing his own game. He wasn’t just further neglecting their friendship. He wished his brain would shut the fuck up about that.

                It had been such a freak accident; it was late in the second, and Dylan was intercepting a pass from Reilly Smith in the Knight’s zone. The puck was on his stick, and he was flying up the boards, still shy of the blue line when Jon Merrill came up on his right… The hit was clean, a total run of the mill check from a defenseman, and it had the intended effect; Dylan fumbled the puck. But in his attempt to get it back, his manoeuvre was unanticipated by Merrill, and the two collided, putting Dylan underneath the defenseman, pinned to the boards.

                The play was stopped, and Merrill skated back to his bench unaffected… But Dylan. Dylan was balled up in the foetal position, both arms cradled against his chest, and Connor had flashbacks to being boarded by Manning, leaving that game with a broken collar bone. He didn’t want that for his best friend, not when his professional career had already gotten off to a late start.

                Connor found he was holding his breath, leaning into the TV, waiting for Stromer to get up off the ice, to get back into the game.

                “Come on, Dyls. Get up!” he murmured, to no one in particular. But then PT came skating to him, helped him off the ice. The cameras showed a close up shot of his face as he was escorted out of the game, and God he looked so tired, his eyes looked completely lifeless, and Connor recognized his expression as one that was literal seconds away from a meltdown.

                “Fuck, Stromer.”

_What if everything's just the way that it will be_

_Could it be that I am meant to cause you all this grief?_

                It’s… a while before Connor actually gets his shit together and calls Dylan, early on a Thursday morning, and he hasn’t even gotten out of bed yet but if he doesn’t call now while he has this feeling of conviction, he might wuss out again. He’s not _really_ surprised when Dylan picks up after a couple of rings, but he’s still, like, a little surprised, because Connor has basically made them strangers over the last month and a half.

                “Hey… Davo,” his greeting is hesitant, and Connor doesn’t blame him, but it’s a strange relief to hear his voice after so long, and God he’s missed Dylan.

                “Hi, Dyls,” he’s almost whispering, barely noticing that his eyes fall shut, and he’s relaxing back into his pillows, six weeks’ worth of tension melting from his shoulders. “I saw that, uh… how’s your… are you hurt?” Connor manages to stutter out, and Dylan is laughing, fucking _laughing_ at him from the other end of the line, and Connor knew if he could see himself he’d have this fond look plastered all over his face, and literally everyone he knew would be chirping him for it. Thank God he was alone.

                “I’m. Like, I’m not great,” he responds after a while, still managing to sound cheerful in spite of his words. “My wrist is broken, and I’m on IR for the next, like, eight weeks but. I should have known better than to get my hopes up about playing in the league,”

                “Hey, don’t say that, Dyls. I missed most of my first season,” Connor argued.

                “Yeah, but they still gave you the C next season and –

                “Yo, Stromer, who’s on the phone?” Connor heard another voice ask from the background.

                “Davo,” he replied simply.

                “Aw, no way! Look who finally decided to man up!” And like, ouch, that was a hard blow. True, maybe. But ouch.

                “Shut up, Mitch. He can probably hear you.” And. Oh. The other voice was Marns, which, considering the Leafs had played a home game last night, meant Dylan was in Toronto… and for some reason that Connor couldn’t identify, knowing that made his gut twist up in a less than pleasant way.

                “Good, he knows damn well I’d be busting his balls in person if I could be.”

                “Yeah, but.”

                “It’s fine, Stromer, Mitch is right,” Connor cut in, refusing to be a third party in his own long distance phone call any longer. “I’ve been acting like absolute shit and like. I know sorry doesn’t really cut it, but for what it’s worth… I am sorry, Dylan.”

_There's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me_

_From my haunted past comes a daunting task of living through memories_

_If we could just hang a mirror on the bedroom wall, stare into the past and forget it all_

                Dylan accepts his apology far too easily, as far as he’s concerned. So, just to grovel a little harder, he offers to fly Dylan out to Edmonton for a few days.

                Which, admittedly, is as much for his benefit as it is for Dylan’s but like. Semantics. Connor fucking misses him, and after such a long time, needs to see him in person to make sure they’re okay.

                It’s more than a month before Connor can fit the downtime into his schedule, and he really wishes for like five minutes he wasn’t a big name player in the NHL, wishes he was just a normal fucking dude, so he could see his best friend on _his_ time, not the league’s time.

_So when we leave it'll be a quick midnight escape_

_We'll disconnect ourselves from all of yesterday_

_I'll dig for water and fashion our very own wishing well_

_Then we'll throw our coins down hoping to rid us of this little hell_

                Dylan flies out of YYZ the morning of November 27th, and arrives in Edmonton just before 11am. They've texted a lot, and talked on the phone at least once a week since they made up, but for some reason that he can't quite put his finger on, Connor is buzzing with nerves while he waits for Dylan's arrival. He's waiting in Arrivals, trying to seem normal, when Dylan comes through the gate. And he looks.

                Good.

                Like, really fucking good.

                Objectively, Dylan has always been a good looking dude, but Connor has also never gone this long without seeing him – over face time, on Snapchat, in person – and him being here now, all at once, no easing into face-to-face interaction over, like, Skype or something was a little bit overwhelming.

                In spite of being out of the desert for almost a month, Dylan is still tanned this warm, golden bronze colour that looks so fucking good on him. He’s still rocking those frosted tips under his Coyotes ball cap, he looks like he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and like he hasn’t slept in a month, but his smile is as bright as ever when their eyes meet across the terminal.

                Dylan wraps him in a tight hug when they reach each other, and even though Dylan is only a couple of inches taller, Connor feels completely surrounded by him, and can’t help but feel completely contented here with his head on his best friend’s shoulder.

                “I missed you, Dyls.”

                “I missed you too, Davo.”

                When they pull away, Connor notices and then can’t take his eyes off of Dylan’s neck. And the impossible to miss yellowing bite marks that’ve been sucked into his skin, visible above the collar of his t-shirt, obvious enough that he doesn’t care who sees them, and Connor feels that same uncomfortable twisting in his stomach again.

_Will we get out of this little hell?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking bets on chapter five getting finished/posted. 
> 
> Leave me a kudos, leave me a comment, and maybe I'll be inspired to finish!


	5. Fragile Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dylan’s still a love-sick idiot. And like, not that he thought that had changed at all in the last several weeks, but...
> 
> Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iunE-X78e3U

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all thought I gave up again, didn't you?
> 
> I've actually had this chapter ready to go since I posted the last one, but I haven't posted yet because I'm a mess, and I want to say my life is BUSY, but in reality, I work 40 hours a week, and spend the rest of my life doing nothing. So, like. Busy, but not THAT busy. Nothing compared to when I wrote Sometimes, when I was working 60~ hours per week and going to school full time. 
> 
> So what's my excuse?
> 
> My excuse is I'm not 23 anymore, and getting old sucks. Wouldn't reccomend it, kids.
> 
> Anyways, here's chapter 5!

_When he sleeps_

_There is a fever dream, yeah_

_It brings a night terror_

_To harm this fragile bird_

_“We’ve grown really close… and our bond is only getting stronger.”_

                Dylan’s still a love-sick idiot. And like, not that he thought that had changed at all in the last several weeks, but when he spots Davo across the terminal his heart rate definitely increases.

                Increases even more once Connor is in his arms, the same old Davo smell filling his nose, his hard body tucked up against him like he was made to fit right there against Dylan’s chest. He really hopes Connor doesn’t notice. Really hopes he doesn’t have some kind of coronary here in the YEG terminal.

                They pull apart, way too soon for Dylan’s liking, and Dylan is acutely aware that Connor isn’t looking him in the eye. And even more aware that the last time they were face to face, Davo had been giving him a friendzoning he wouldn’t soon forget.

                But still, it was nice to just. Be around Connor. It’s not like looking at Connor makes him feel like he’s shattering into a million jagged pieces, or anything.

                Nope, totally Gucci over here.

                But he’d take the pain over the silent treatment any day.

                Things are still… a little awkward as they head back to Connor’s Edmonton apartment, and like, there’s always been silences with him and Connor, but they were usually these comfortable stretches of quiet, where neither of them felt the need to talk because they were just happy to be around one another. Or, at least, that’s how Dylan always saw them.

                Now, he felt like he needed to fill every gap in the conversation, because any stretch of quiet seemed to be suffocating him, so he found himself updating Davo on his last few weeks in the GTA, and being at too many Leaf games, and hanging out with Mitch. But when he mentions Mitch, he notices Connor stiffen out of the corner of his eye. And. And he doesn’t really get it, because it’s not like he had said anything about the Sadness Fucking™ thing they’d been doing (though the bands of bruising around his neck sort of speak for themselves), and Connor had made it abundantly clear to him that he had no interest in Dylan beyond their friendship, but it was whatever. He steered the conversation to safer pastures, like food, and the ‘Yotes game tomorrow night, and things went back to normal pretty easily after that.

                He thought.

_And when he wakes in his fragile state_

_Well, he calls my name, hoping that I keep him safe_

                It’s late – almost early – after a night of chel, and too many drinks, with Davo’s head casually in Dylan’s lap, green eyes threatening to fall shut, that Dylan decides it’s probably time for bed. Connor’s got a morning skate in, like, five hours, and Dylan knows that, obviously Connor is never bad on the ice. But he’s… less good, not as fast, not as calculating if he hasn’t gotten his beauty sleep.

                Dylan drops his unplastered hand gently onto a head of strawberry curls.

                “Okay, dude. I’m going to bed; you gotta move,” he says, expecting Connor to move off of him so he can go sleep in the guest room.

                Except… Connor doesn’t. Just, looks up at him, all sleepy-eyed and beautiful, smiles at him with a private version of that CCM-model smile that Dylan loves so much, and his heart just might skip a beat. And then Connor McDavid says one word that will wreck Dylan completely for the foreseeable future:

                “Stay.”

                And it’s not really a request. Dylan goes through a whole range of emotions in the silent seconds that follow, and Connor is looking at him with something that looks an awful lot like vulnerability, which is a rare sight on him. And surely he was reading too much into this, but…

                “Sorry, what?” He asks, and Connor is still gazing up at him, suggesting something so innocently, that as far as Dylan is concerned is in no way innocent when there’s only one bed in the room, and Dylan is in love with him.

                “You could just… stay.” Davo says, and he’s watching Dylan’s face carefully, and he knows his expression still hasn’t settled on anything decisive, and Davo’s voice loses some of its confidence.  “Sleep in here? With me?”

                “I don’t think that’s the best idea, man.” Because God, Dylan wants to, and sure him and Connor had shared beds before out of necessity, but platonic bed sharing _by choice_ was a Mitch Marner thing (much like platonic cuddles and platonic blow jobs were Mitch Marner things), not a Connor McDavid thing. Connor wasn’t that same brand of casually affectionate that Mitch was. The most physical he ever got was hugging out his cellies. And Dylan’s heart was fucking fragile at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he could handle sleeping in the same bed as the dude he was pining over.

                He couldn’t afford to get too close… to get his hopes up again, and his heart subsequently broken... again

                And why, suddenly, after so many years of friendship with no desire to sleep in the same bed, had Connor decided that this was the most opportune time to start? Now, after the last time they’d shared any sort of physical intimacy, they had gone for months without speaking, and were just attempting to return to normal.

                Below him, Connor’s face was falling from it’s sleepy smile into his press face, and he was recoiling from Dylan’s lap, and Dylan knew he probably looked, like, angry, or at least annoyed, but honestly, how could Connor be so fucking _frustrating?_

“Yeah, no. You’re probably right.” He acquiesces, and Dylan finds himself leaving the room without so much as a _goodnight_ to Connor.

                Dylan thought he was tired, but once he was laying in the guest bedroom, alone with his thoughts, and no Davo beside him, sleep didn’t come easy.

_All that I can do, is hope he makes it through the night_

_Through the night_

                The next day, Dylan meets Connor at the rink a few hours before the game, and he’s still exhausted because he barely slept. They grab some food in relative normalcy, but Dylan finds himself jerking away from every casual brush of their hands, every bump of their shoulders and he doesn’t _mean_ to be acting weird… but he can’t stop it, because every touch from Connor felt confusing, made his chest constrict, and he didn’t really realize how fucked up his feelings had gotten during their separation. He hopes Connor doesn’t notice, but he does because _of course_ he does.

                “Dude, what’s up with you? You’re all… jumpy.” He asks on the way back to the rink, and Dylan curses inwardly. He keeps his face impassive, and shrugs without meeting Connor’s gaze.

                “Just didn’t sleep well,” he mumbles, holding the door to get back into the Roger’s Place.

                Connor hums, non-committal, and Dylan really hopes that's the end of it.

                But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

_Lost in the dark, he's got a heavy heart_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming in at 1200ish words, there's only so much my brain was providing me from Dylan's POV. I hope Connor's chapter gives me an easier time >.<
> 
> If you liked, leave me a comment, drop a kudos. Keep me motivated!
> 
> Hey, are you following me on tumblr? https://strome-daddy.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I'll be trying to post these rewritten chapters in a timely manner, but things may be late due to who I am as a person. 
> 
> Leave a comment, leave a kudos. They fuel me


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